


A Little Bit Genghis Khan

by asuralucier



Series: There's a Hotel Room in New York City (That Shares Our Pain and Deserves Our Pity) [1]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Blood, But he is still John Wick, Crack Treated Seriously, John is new at this kidnapping thing, Knifeplay, M/M, Nobody is sane, Quippy Dialogue, Stockholm Syndrome, Winston recommends this kidnapper! five stars, dubious consent just in case, mutually assured destruction, poster boys for pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 20:39:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18667966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: ”I’m guessing you know who I am?”“Your name is Winston White. At least, that’s the name on the deed to the New York Continental Hotel, which you own and claim to manage. As for the rest, I don’t know, and I don’t care.”AU where John is a rogue government agent dealing with...a lot. After the untimely death of his wife and dog, he kidnaps the Owner of the New York Continental for revenge.Meanwhile, Winston is just impressed.





	A Little Bit Genghis Khan

**Author's Note:**

> I booked my tickets to JW 3 today and this has been sitting on my drive for a month. Title is taken from Miike Snow's [Genghis Khan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P_SlAzsXa7E)...which should tell you what you need to know. 
> 
> But seriously, crack lies ahead. Read at your own risk.

When Winston woke, there was a thick taste of wool in his mouth. There was the edge of something unpleasant clinging too, at the edge of his brain, almost urging him to close his eyes and to go back to sleep. It took some doing, but Winston bit the edge of his tongue; he was hurt in several other places, but the sting to his tongue was quick, immediate, and even fresh and it woke him up. 

“You up?” Said a voice from somewhere. The room was still dim, but Winston could recognize the fixings of a roadside motel. 

“I can’t turn my neck, I’m afraid. You have me at a bit of a disadvantage. But yes, I am. More or less.” 

No bullets were flying through the door. No armored cars were careening through the wall. The place was so still, Winston could almost hear the soft crackle of electricity coming from the lights above him. What kind of rescue operation was Charon mounting, anyway? Winston made a note to put his concierge through a performance review, as soon as he was back within a reasonable proximity of the city. 

Finally, Winston heard footsteps, and the man who emerged from behind him to fill his vision wasn’t anyone he recognized. Winston had the distinct feeling that if he had seen this man anywhere before today, he would have remembered. The man was tall, with deep set eyes and skin that looked nearly translucent like he wasn’t quite human. The man was also bleeding profusely and clutching at his gut. 

“What happened to you?” 

“Your people shot me,” said the man between gritted teeth. “I shot them back.” 

“Fair response,” Winston nodded, and trained his still bleary eyes on the wound. “Are they all dead?” 

“Probably.” This was told to Winston flatly and without interest, “D’you want me to go check?” 

And after that, there was silence, except for the man occasionally swearing under his breath as he ran the flame of a cheap little lighter over a pair of tweezers and a thin blade protracting from a Swiss Army knife. After the man seemed satisfied with the state of his instruments, he went over to a bag and unearthed a bottle of vodka. He took a generous swig and stared at his hands, willing them to be still. 

“Quit staring at me,” said the man, who posed the blade very close to his wound. 

“Self-conscious?” Winston returned evenly. “Consider it professional curiosity. I haven’t done this in years.” 

Still, Winston said nothing else as the man worked. His technique was shoddy and amateurish, but it did the job and what was perhaps the most impressive thing was that the man didn’t faint halfway through. Finally, he plopped the bullet into a mug and let out a low hiss. 

“You should close that up,” Winston said, “It might go septic.” 

“Do you not think _I know that_ ,” the man snapped. “I need a minute. And more vodka.” 

“If you untie me, I’ll do it,” Winston offered, “I used to be a tailor.”

“Yeah, I know. That was in your file,” the man sighed, his eyes fluttering closed. 

“What file?” One of the questions on the tip of his tongue was to ask the man who he worked for. The Russians were always a good bet, but the Italians were up and coming and had a talent for acquiring new blood quietly. Maybe even the Japanese, who was a new presence in the Big Apple but quickly making a splash. There was, of course, always the Hong Kong triad, which was a tad too traditional so perhaps that wasn’t it, either. 

None of those people, for one thing, kept files. Everyone was vaguely allergic to paper and not even Charon knew Winston used to be a tailor. 

“You’re a government agent,” Winston said. “Aren’t you? _Wake_ up.” 

“After a fashion,” the man mumbled. And then he shook himself, “Will you actually sew me up?” 

“As opposed to, what, kill you?” 

“You can’t blame me for it crossing my mind,” Government Agent After A Fashion opened his eyes and the sheer hollowness of his gaze made Winston want to stop breathing. 

“If I were to kill you, it wouldn’t be with a needle,” Winston told him, and it was the truth. “It’s against the creed.” 

“Creed of people who make clothes,” the man almost laughed. “I’m learning things today.” But then he heaved himself up from his position on the bed and made his way over to Winston’s chair. Winston felt the man’s hand against the knot at the back of his chair. Then Winston heard a gun click at the back of his head. A moment after that, the knot loosened. Winston’s blood was sluggish, through his long-disused veins, but it might not have been longer than a couple of hours. 

“Move,” said the man. 

Winston did. It felt odd to stand and flex his fingers, and there was once or twice when he thought his knees were going to give up on him. But he managed to get over to the bed and stared at the equipment provided. There was actual surgical suture, and needles which the man now reached for to hold under the lighter. 

“Do you want some more vodka? Could be an idea.” 

“You’re not going through my things. I’ll get it.” 

Winston pushed the man down on the mattress. Not hard, and something told him he wouldn’t have been able to do it if the man hadn’t been bleeding profusely. “You’re not moving until I close that up. Put the gun to me if that makes you feel better.” 

“Okay, fine.” 

Winston went to the bag and found vodka, clips of bullets, and a small amount of C4 bordering on sensible. He also found a Colt revolver that he might have been able to load and shoot in under ten seconds. 

In the end, he chose not to chance it. Winston returned to where the man sat and thrust the bottle in his hand, “Drink.” 

It took Winston a little while to thread the suture properly. He was still waiting for blood to come back to the tip of his fingers. When the needle first pierced through skin and then through the wound, the man stiffened, but said nothing. He drank more vodka. 

“I’m guessing you know who I am? I tend not to mention the tailoring thing to anyone. So much so I almost forget myself. Let’s see how much I remember, shall we?” 

The man let out a breath, “Your name is Winston White. At least, that’s the name on the deed to the New York Continental Hotel, which you own and claim to manage. As for the rest, I don’t know, and I don’t care.” 

“For someone who doesn’t care, dear boy, you seem to be going through an inordinate amount of trouble.” 

The man looked at him, and Winston wondered if the man was contemplating hitting him with the bottle. “I care about this. But not about the specifics. Are you done?” 

“Just about,” said Winston. “Try not to engage in any strenuous exercise in the next three hours.” 

As soon as he’d said this, a rocket launcher came through the window. Winston sighed, these people had awful timing, but maybe they deserved points for effort this time around. A rocket launcher was at least a step up from whatever they'd used before.

 

Now the man was dying in a gentlemen’s toilet buried at the back of a godforsaken fast-food joint. There were various things still bouncing off Winston’s eardrums that made understanding the man difficult, but he was proficient enough at reading lips in at least French, English, and Czech.

“You want me to go buy some food.” 

“Yeah,” the man reached into his pocket and came up with a wad of cash. “I’m starving.” 

“I have money,” said Winston, mostly out of habit. It’d been some time since anyone had ordered Winston to do anything, or indeed handed him money like he was someone common. It’d also been a long time since he’d paid with cash for anything; somehow, Winston doubted that if he’d slipped a doubloon across to the cashier that it would be interpreted as a cry for help. 

It was also without question that the man in front of him, though he looked inches from death, had survived harrowing experiences that no man should be able to walk away from, even with a limp. 

“I took your wallet,” the man gave him a look. “You don’t have any money.” 

Winston patted his pockets. He was indeed without his wallet or mobile phone. A minor inconvenience, “Very well.” 

 

“Yo dude,” the cashier fixed Winston with a probing look. “You okay?” 

Winston hadn't looked at himself in the mirror for some time. He could have done in the gent’s, but then the man’s decree that Winston fetch him food because he was starving was so jarring and unlike anything he’d ever been told to do that he’d just gone to the counter and asked for two burger whatever meals, extra large fries, and coffee like he was on autopilot. 

But Winston supposed he must look terrible, “My friend and I got separated from our stag do. A stripper was involved. But I think we’re fine.” 

“Yikes, that’s thirteen-fifty.”

And that was that. 

Winston chose a table not too far from the toilet and when the man limped out, he looked fresher. There was less blood on his face for one thing, and he must have found a way to stop the bleeding because there wasn’t a drop on the floor. 

“Why is the cashier staring at us?” 

“I doubt it’s because he’s got a semi-auto hidden next to the fryer,” Winston said. He drank some coffee. It wasn’t very good, “He asked me if I was all right.” 

“And you said...what?” 

Winston told him and the man made a face, “ _That_ was the best you could come up with.” 

“I was ambushed,” Winston held up both hands. “And it’s been a long time since I’ve had to tell a normal lie.” 

“What’s an abnormal lie?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Winston had to think. He took a bite of his burger and nearly spit it out. But then the coffee helped. “Leftover uranium from Chernobyl to be released in the sewer system of New York City? That’s what going to happen to millions of innocent people if you don’t let me go. If you know about my owning the Continental, then you must know that there are certain things within my grasp.” 

“I couldn’t care less about New York,” said the man. He chewed his own burger and reached for a packet of ketchup. 

“Your superiors do,” Winston hedged, “Presumably. Protect and serve, or something.” 

“They do,” the man nodded. “But I don’t. If this is you negotiating your release, then I have to say you suck at it.” 

“I don’t negotiate,” Winston said, “Usually, people who know what’s good for them do what I tell them to. Or else suffer the consequences.” 

“What consequences?” The man grinned at him, wolfish and there are bits of dried blood on his teeth. Or maybe it was ketchup. 

 

They drove, and the man blew up a eighteen-wheeler in the middle of an abandoned highway, leaving a river of methane fire and upturned asphalt in their wake. Winston started entertaining serious notions of offering the man a pay package so good that he’d retire permanently for greener pastures. That too, was within his grasp as the proprietor of the Continental. 

They stopped for gas, and the man handed Winston more money and asked him to go and pay for the gas used at pump three. 

Winston did, and upon second thought, he treated himself to a candy bar. 

“Low blood sugar,” he said, by the way of explanation when the man raised his eyebrows. “I gather you’d rather I didn’t faint.” 

The man assented to this and replaced the gas pump. 

“What _do_ you want?” Winston pressed. “Not that I’m not enjoying the joy ride. I am. Out of all the times I’ve been kidnapped, this certainly ranks. Not above Paris though, I’m afraid.” 

“Paris.” 

“Once I was kidnapped and taken to Paris,” said Winston. “The catacombs rather put a damper on things, but on the last day, Raoul bought me a crepe from a truck. And then I had him shot and dumped in the Seine.” 

“If you want to dump me anywhere, I prefer the Chesapeake Bay.” 

Winston regarded him carefully, “Duly noted. Stop avoiding my question.” 

“I want revenge,” said the man. “I want leverage. And according to what I know, you can give me both of those things.” 

 

They stole a car. The man asked his opinion and Winston gave it freely, “nothing too fancy with plenty of torque so you can get yourself out of scrapes.” The man looked impressed, not by the substance of Winston’s advice but that Winston knew about torque. 

“I know a lot of things,” said Winston. 

“Sure,” said the man. 

The only thing that remotely fit the bill in the lot that they were in was an inoffensive, average tan four-door that took the man thirty seconds to hotwire. There was a pram in the back of the car and there was a pause in the man's resolve. Then he unfolded the pram from the car and stuffed a wad of cash underneath the padding of the seat from Winston’s wallet. 

“What on earth is that for?” 

“I don’t want to leave anyone stranded with a kid,” the man shrugged. “Taxi fare?” 

“You’ve probably left them enough to hire a limousine.” 

“Just get in the car,” the man said. 

Winston did. It was probably for the best. 

“Do I know you?” Winston said. “I keep thinking I should. Now that you’ve declared vengeance, I keep waiting for something to click. But nothing has.” 

“My name is John,” said the man. 

“That doesn’t help,” Winston rolled his eyes. “Did you always want to work for the government?” 

“Not really.” 

“Where are we going? Can you at least tell me that?” 

John shrugged again, “Consider me magnanimous. Where would you like to go?” 

 

John checked into another motel, one that provided a continental breakfast and sporadic cable television because apparently this was now all Winston asked from life. Once they were inside the privacy of their room, Winston made John remove his shirt, slick and starched with dried blood. 

“The sutures have come out,” Winston said. 

“You did say you were out of practice,” John said, almost accusingly. 

“I did say that, but I also said no strenuous exercise,” Winston reminded him. “This isn’t on me.” 

John stared him down, “Yes it is, because your people keep trying to kill me. Have you forgotten? Because I haven’t.” 

“Again, a fair reaction if their employer has been kidnapped,” Winston rubbed a hand across his eyes. He suddenly felt exhausted; he could only imagine the tiredness that lodged itself on John’s person. Winston enjoyed a good show and he was getting to that time when there was something compelling and exquisite about being the company of a younger man. Even if said younger man was trying his best not to be endearing, “Do you mind if I shower?” 

John considered this, “Leave the door open and don’t take in anything sharp.” 

None of this was particularly unreasonable in the grand scheme of things. But Winston thought that he was allowed to be a bit put out by the suggestion that his options for survival were suddenly limited to the desperate and absurd. “You trust me to go purchase you food and petrol, and yet you don’t want to grant me the privacy of a shower?” 

John cocked his head sideways, “Ever been to prison?” 

“Haven’t had the pleasure,” said Winston, but this explained a lot. “You’re a turned informant, aren’t you? For whom?” 

There was a long pause. John appeared to be thinking, and the gun in his hand didn’t even twitch once. 

“...My wife was,” said John, at length. “I was supposed to protect her and I couldn’t.” A dark pain came and clouded over the whole of John’s face, “Her name was Helen Wick and she worked at the Continental tending bar. -- Do you remember her? Or do you not remember any of the names of the ants you step on?” 

Winston didn’t remember Helen Wick really. But he remembered that time a young bartender and her dog and bled to death just steps from the concierge’s desk not so long ago. They had to replace the carpet and scrub the blood from the floorboards underneath the best they could. He remembered that more, because they’d had to close down on a Friday evening which was always terrible for business. After that, Winston had to field all sorts of phone calls from all of the other Continentals calling him a cunt.

He was still puzzling that one out. 

“...She was going to sell us out, if what you say is true. We look after our own, John.” 

“Why did you kill my dog?” 

“I didn’t. But...loose ends, I’d imagine,” Winston said, for once wishing he had a better answer. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.” 

“You aren’t,” John chewed almost violently on his bottom lip, “You’re only interested in saving your own skin. You think sorry is going to save you from me.” 

“No, I think an apology is polite; I’m sorry she’s dead, John. And the dog. I certainly apologize for the dog.” Contrary to popular opinion, usually affixed to men like Winston, he rather did wish animals no harm. In fact, Winston thought that men (or women) who did harm to animals were the worst kind of people, and maybe if he got out of this reasonably alive, then he was going to look into getting a dog. Perhaps a breed that was needlessly excessive like an Irish wolfhound, as a tribute to the man who’d against all odds become Winston’s favorite...something. He wasn’t going to use the word kidnapper. He hadn’t with the others because they hadn’t deserved such an assignation, but the same couldn’t exactly be said of John.

Still, kidnapping was an ugly word, and Winston was within his rights to dislike it.

(A fair assessment of John thus far: his technique needed work, but his enthusiasm was unparalleled. Add to that what had thus far seemed like sheer dumb luck, John was likely to go very far if he’d ever decided to pursue a career change.) 

Winston had started to take off his clothes; he only stopped that and breathing when he felt a knife fit neatly above his sternum. He also smelled keenly the scent of blood and sweat and all right, maybe he twitched. If John ever let go of him for him to take that shower, he was going to be slightly sorry that he couldn’t have had a wank. 

John moved the knife up towards the sensitive skin covering Winston’s throat, the promise of pinpoint precision pain wrought up in John’s less-pinpoint-but-still-entirely-precise anger was exquisite to imagine in hand and then he remembered himself. 

“Did you just,” said John. 

Oh. Well, so much for subtlety. Although Winston could hardly fault John for his discerning attention. 

“Yes,” Winston said because lying was full of impractical dimensions. “Does that surprise you?” 

“...Maybe.” 

The first light of uncertainty came into John’s eyes after that and it made him look boyish and young and out of his depth. Even though Winston knew better, he knew that these are natural instincts, untouched by systematic corrosion. John had said he never wanted to work for the government and Winston had every piece of evidence to point towards the man telling the truth. 

“I prefer to dole it out, of course,” Winston said. This was a first, that his cock had saved him from certain death. One for the books, perhaps. “But I’ve been in enough pain before to enjoy it in a certain way. You don’t frighten me, John.” 

 

That was evidently the right thing to have said, because they were fucking not thirty seconds after that. Or, if not exactly _fucking_ , they were headed in that direction certainly; what was transpiring in the that John’s attempt at whatever the fuck this was definitely beat Paris. The knife stayed exactly where it was against Winston’s skin. John, by the feel of him, had never been with a man previously. It was funny how Winston could always tell these things. 

There was the small problem of the wife, Winston supposed. But she was dead, and he’d said he was sorry, which was all Winston with all of his gifts could conceivably do. Maybe that was the end of it. Who knew what was in John’s head; hopefully by the look at him with one leg anchoring against the wall of the shower to better accommodate Winston’s cock buried in his arse; his face scrunched somewhere between pleasure and pain that there wasn’t much else. 

“I could just gut you,” John said, his face flushed and lovely. 

Winston pressed his hand into John’s wound and the other man hissed, but the rest of John reacted differently and _wanted_. It was the kind of desire that even a man like John, all control, but more human and bulwarked by a string of _what ifs_ , other lives made possible by virtue of a single decision couldn’t quite see coming. Still, it was nice to see that the man was getting into the spirit of things.

“You could,” Winston said. “You could even file a report on why a dead man’s erection was up your arse. If that’s something that strikes you.” 

“That’s not how reports work,” John gritted out. 

“That’s what you’re concerned about it, is it? How reports work.” 

“Winston you _fucker_ ,” John’s hand twitched, and naturally the knife twitched too, nicking a spot on his throat that wasn’t quite anything important. At the back Winston’s head, he was conscious that John had broken skin. He didn’t think it was life-threatening but it was certainly interesting. The sharp sensation which skimmed quite close to his veins was something. It reminded Winston very keenly that not everything was prone to a mere cheapened etiology, only just out of his reach. 

Winston’s hand found John’s erection, at attention, and when he took it earnestly in hand, John bit out a sort of whinnying sound, “...Wait.” 

“ -- Problem?” 

“Just,” John rolled his eyes towards the open bathroom door. “I don’t know, waiting for a car to come through the wall or something. Might not be the. Best.” 

Winston had to look at him for a long moment. Part of him was offended that his dick was apparently not enough to distract John from bubbling dangers, but the other part of him, the part that was usually reasonable and aware of the intricacies of the situation, had to concede that the man had a point. 

“You might have a bit of a point,” Winston said. 

“Of course I do,” John lifted one side of his mouth. “Finish stripping.” 

“I. I beg your pardon?” 

 

It was only after Winston finished removing his clothes down to his socks that John, with his shorts still down around one of his ankles went and fetched Winston’s mobile phone. 

“Here.” 

“You’re giving me back my phone,” Winston said. 

John nodded, “Call off the cavalry. This call acts as proof of life and I’ll return you once I’m done.” 

“And I have to be naked while I do that, do I?” 

“Consider it insurance,” John said. He retreated to the edge of the bed and trained the gun on Winston’s person again. “You don’t want to be caught with your cock out and I don’t want to file a fucking report.” 

John’s logic was hardly sound, but it had its sense. 

Charon picked up the call before it’d even rung, and Winston felt only a bit terrible because he imagined the man not having left his post for hours. Perhaps not even to relieve himself. 

“Whoever you are,” said Charon. “I wish to inform you that we’ve acquired a tank. I hope that you’re amenable to negotiating the owner’s safe return.” 

“A tank,” Winston blinked. “At such short notice?” 

“Sir?” There was a rush of emotion that was at odds with the rest of Charon’s person, “Are you --” 

“I’m fine, mostly,” Winston touched a finger to his throat. The blood was still fresh, “A _tank_?” 

“Decommissioned but in working order,” Charon confirmed. “I borrowed it from the the Russians.” 

“And what did they borrow from us in return?” 

Charon cleared his throat, “Well. It’s my personal debt. It won’t impact on the Continental. I have not broken any rules, sir.” 

“What,” said Winston, forgetting John and the fact that he was very naked for the moment. “Did you give them?” 

“I promised them I’d go work at the Continental in Moscow. At the end of the year. I’ll train up a replacement, but that’s only contingent on them lending us the tank and the manpower in order to retrieve you.” Charon said, more than unhappily. “Considering thirty-five men have died and another ten sustaining potentially life-altering injuries, I’m beginning to gather the impression that Viggo Tarasov feels as if the deal is unfair.” 

“You’re leaving for the Continental in Moscow and you don’t think that impacts _business_ ,” Winston snarled and then remembered himself and his nakedness. “Only thirty?” 

“Thirty-five dead, with ten sustaining --” 

“I heard you,” Winston said. “Sorry, thirty-five dead, ten injured.” 

Winston felt the heat of John’s gaze travel down the length of his body, and he was suddenly more than sorry that he couldn't give it his full attention. John waved the gun in Winston’s general direction, “Okay. Finish it up, come on.” 

“Who’s that?” said Charon. 

“My kidnapper,” Winston said. 

“Kidnapper,” Charon seemed to consider the word, “Singular?” 

“I’m just as surprised as you are,” Winston told him. “He promises no harm will come to me and he’ll return me when he’s finished. As such, I’d suggest you try to return the tank.” 

“...With what, exactly?” 

“He’s alleging someone killed his wife and dog,” Winston sighs. “I don’t remember. I was hoping you could tell me who. She died on a Friday. The carpets had to be replaced. That’s about all I got.” 

 

“Give me back the phone,” said John, not two seconds after Winston hung up. 

“I did what you wanted,” Winston said. “Is that tone necessary? Are you not worried about the tank?” 

“Are you worried about the tank?” John returned almost glibly. 

“Considering that my concierge that went and did something completely out of character,” Winston doesn’t even have to think. “Yes, I am. A little. As much as you impress me I don’t think even you can withstand a tank.” 

Winston crossed to where John sat at the edge of the bed and held out his phone. John grabbed him by the wrist, pressing down against Winston’s bones and Winston was suddenly very aware that they were both in a state of undress. And that he’d called off a sodding _tank_ due to the possibilities that such a state of undress might yet provide. 

“Are you worried about me?” John said. 

“You don’t seem quite sane,” Winston admitted. “That’s not usually something that bothers me. Except you know, I’m rarely so personally involved.” 

Winston’s gaze was was drawn to the gun in John’s other hand. He was also drawn to the fact that the gun was poised where he would really rather John not shoot and. 

“Do you want me to put this away?” 

“How about a compromise,” Winston suggested. “You can aim a couple of inches up and I promise I’ll pay attention.” 

 

Winston was a man of his word. Not to mention, it wasn’t any great loss to him to pay rapt attention to John’s body. Every inch of it. 

It should always be on the books that men who have inadvertently traded blood should always end up trading spit and something else. This time, there wasn’t a knife, but it was still great fun anyway. Winston wasn’t under any delusion of what made John such an ardent kisser but such realities rarely took away from the end product. Which was John’s flushed face and straining body and the way he snarled when Winston missed his prostate on purpose. 

After they’d untangled themselves, Winston headed to the bathroom, just about to close the door behind him when John stopped him, “What did we say about open doors?” 

“You’re fortunate that I even find your condescension compelling,” Winston sighed and turned around. “What do you think I’m going to do? I’m genuinely asking.” 

“Not masturbate,” John said, which was a point. “So you can leave the fucking door open.” 

 

“So who killed my dog?” 

“I’m feeling rather used,” Winston glanced at him. It’d only occurred to him later that he had nothing to change into. John offered him a change of clothes, which were loose on Winston and cloying with the scent of John’s musk. 

“You feel _used_ ,” John winced, rubbing a hand at his reddened mouth. “I let you fuck me. If I die because of this it’s going to be your fault.” 

Winston was set to be offended and then he realized that the man was talking about mobility, which was itself a fair point. Perhaps it was best to move on, “...A certain Miss Perkins killed your wife and dog; the contract was for two million but I don’t think that matters to her. She’d kill anyone.” Winston found himself wondering if John was as undiscerning. “How about you?” 

“How about me what?” 

“Would you kill a woman? I’ve never had the opportunity to present this question to a married man. It’s a matter of some interest to me.” 

“It’s a job, right?” John shrugged. “I guess I would. But I wouldn’t kill a dog. That’s messed up.” 

“Neither would I,” Winston said, strangely heartened that he and John finally agreed on something, “...May I watch while you dispose of her? She broke one of our rules, and the carpet was expensive to replace.” 

“It occurs to me,” John said, looking at him carefully. “That you fed me her name because you want me to do your dirty work for you. How can I trust you?” 

“I’ve trusted you not to kill me so far,” Winston pointed out gamely. “I think I win.” 

John stared down at himself again and poked a thumb into his wound experimentally. 

“That probably needs sewing up again,” said Winston. “Do you have any thread left?” 

 

Perkins was very dead; dead enough that the man that Charlie dispatched to clean up her body nearly fainted like he’d never seen a dead body splattered all over a wall. And then he’d sort of tried to shoot John because all calibers of news got around. Winston came out of the toilet just in time to prevent further bloodshed. 

“I thought you were kidnapped, sir. Um.” 

John said, “He is.” 

Winston said, “I am. I think.” 

“You are,” John glared at him. 

“Right, right, I am,” Winston held up both hands. He was suddenly very wary of how every article on his person was loose in a telling way and maybe it was telling enough that the guy even noticed. 

“What are you...um, wearing, sir?” 

“That’d be none of your business,” Winston said. 

“Can I shoot him,” John clicked his gun and Winston didn’t get the feeling that he was asking a question. 

“I’d rather you not,” Winston reached for something in his pockets only to belatedly remember that he wasn’t wearing his trousers. “...Do you have any paper?” 

John handed him the receipt from the filling station and a pen. That pen had clearly been used to do someone bodily harm but Winston was glad to see that it didn't affect the quality of the ink. 

“Take this to the concierge,” Winston said after he’d scribbled something down. “Compliments of management. Now get out.” 

 

Three weeks later, things were mostly back to normal. Charon was on the lookout for a wardrobe suitable to cruel Moscow winters and Winston introduced him to his new replacement. 

“Hello,” said John, extending his hand. He was still sporting a bit of a limp, but he was mindful of the hotel's very expensive carpets. It even felt expensive through his shoes, “My name is John Wick.” 

\---

**_Coda_ **

“Ma’am?” 

“Speaking,” said a woman’s voice. “John?” 

“I was wondering if I could speak to my dog,” John said, tucking the receiver under his chin. The phone box he was calling from was buried between a Chinese takeout and a defunct beauty parlor that probably dealt crack. The fact that John looked shifty was on par for the course. 

“Sure, I’ll take a message.” 

“Helen --” 

“I’m joking,” Helen said. “But she isn’t here right now. I had someone take her out for a walk. Poor Daisy was cooped up for days because you know, I didn’t know what you were going to blow up.” 

“Okay, point,” John rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Anyway. I just wanted to tell you that it worked. The Manager likes crazy. I can do crazy. Nice touch about the dog, by the way. I think that was what got him.” (At least, that was all John was putting in his damn report when he got to it.) 

“Don’t get too used to it, sweetheart,” said Helen; John could tell that she was rolling her eyes. “But happy hunting.”


End file.
